


Poet

by Ariel_Tempest



Series: Lord Of Brancaster [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But Thoroughly Discussed, Gen, Lots of dialogue, Poetry, Referenced Romance, Relationship Not Actually Shown, Sequel, Series Spoilers, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 08:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12361164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Tempest/pseuds/Ariel_Tempest
Summary: Lady Mary visits her Grandmother for tea and winds up discussing discussing poetry, peers, and Scandalous Romance.





	Poet

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of the first three stories I came up with for the Lord of Brancaster collection and is actually a sequel to a couple of other, longer works I have going. I was going to wait until the others were finished before posting it, but the first one took a year to get a rough draft on and a half year to revise. The second may never see the light of day, at this rate. Given that this piece has been sitting complete for nearly a year, I figured I'd go ahead and post it. You should be able to follow what's going on if you've seen the series and read the collection description.

_I have written you down_  
_Now you will live forever._  
_The virtue's in the verse,_  
_And you will live forever._

\- "Poet", Bastille

__  
__  
"Lady Mary, milady," Spratt announces me, standing primly next to the door, looking straight ahead and past me without actually looking at me in that manner that only butlers can manage without being rude. I walk, if any woman can be said to walk when she's nine months pregnant, into Granny's sitting room to find her sitting in her favorite chair by the window, a magazine in her hand. I can't see the cover.  
  


"Mary! What a pleasant surprise." She looks up from the magazine, only half lowering her reading glasses. "I didn't expect to see you until after the baby was born."

I dutifully make my way across the room and bend over to kiss her cheek. Admittedly, at this point in history we're likely both just as tottery, but she has the claim of seniority. "I had to get out of the house," I explain, turning and taking a seat on the sofa. It feels wonderful to get off my feet, even though I've not been walking hardly at all. "I was going crazy."

"You didn't walk the entire way, did you?" Granny frowns at me, then, apparently deciding I look like I need tea, turns to Spratt. "Spratt, bring us some tea, will you?"

"Of course, milady," Spratt bows and shows himself from the room.

Once he's out of the room, I once again have Granny's complete attention and despite the fact she interrupted herself, I am clearly expected to give an answer promptly. Her show of severity makes me smile, because I know it's only because she cares. "Don't worry, Granny," I assure her. "I had Tom drop me at the gate, I've only come up the main walk. Nothing too strenuous, although really, Anna worked right up until she went into labor."

"Which resulted in her son being born in your bed," she reminds me in that tone that says while she's accepted the event, she still doesn't quite approve of it.

I smile, lifting my eyes to the ceiling. "Well, I promise not to have my baby in your living room. After all, this close to the hospital, Spratt can drive me over in plenty of time."

"I'd sooner have my newest great-grandchild born in my living room, thank you, or one of the bedchambers if we could get you there." She eyes my stomach as if concerned this line of conversation might be giving the baby ideas. "Not that I distrust Spratt's driving, but the less you move, the more comfortable I'll be."

"Suit yourself. So, what am I interrupting?"

Granny looks down at the magazine still in her hand. "Oh, nothing important," she smiles and laughs a little, the light laughter she uses when she finds something amusing, but also quite trivial. "I was only reading Sophoronia Gordon's latest poem in the art column of Edith's magazine and trying to figure out who it's about this week. Have you read it?"

"I'm afraid I pay as little attention to Edith's magazine as I do Edith," I reply with a full eyeroll. Admittedly, that's not quite true anymore. I find the longer Edith is away in Northumberland, the less she annoys me. Our family visit earlier this year was quite pleasant, in fact. I have to wonder if part of our problem was simply being entirely too much in each other's company. However, I still can't quite bring myself to subscribe to The Sketch. Not yet. It still feels too much like admitting defeat. "Is Sophoronia Gordon a regular writer, then?"

"Fairly regular, yes," Granny nods, gesturing to the magazine, "She's nowhere near as popular as Agatha Christie, of course, but Miss Gordon," she emphasizes the title, as if there's doubt, "Has become quite the fixture for the publication."

I arch an eyebrow at her tone. "You make it sound as if you doubt Miss Gordon's gender, or her marital status, one or the other." I really can't imagine it's the marital status. There's not enough shock value in discovering someone you assumed was unmarried actually has a husband to warrant that tone.

The knowing, not-quite-smug look I get confirms as much. "Miss Gordon started publishing shortly after Edith moved to Brancaster," she informs me. "She only publishes in The Sketch. Her third poem was titled 'Marigold' and the fifth was about Tangiers."

"Oh," I cough lightly, uncertain whether to smile or grimace. Well, that explains it at any rate. "I suppose when you put it that way, no, Peter isn't being overly subtle, is he?"

"Not to anyone in the family," she agrees, "Although to anyone unacquainted with the family it should look perfectly normal."

"And are all of Miss Gordon's poems about people then? You said there was one about Tangiers."

Spratt pushes his way back into the room with the tea tray. The water must have already been hot.

"Oh, people, places, there was even one about a car, although I suppose that one might secretly have been about Henry," Granny replies, watching Spratt serve the tea as if she expects him to do something wrong. He doesn't. Once the tea is poured, she dismisses him. "Thank you, Spratt, that will be all."

"Very good, Your Ladyship." Spratt bows again and leaves Granny and I free to discuss whatever we wish. 

Granny continues as I pick up my cup and sip my tea. It's still a touch hot for my taste. "This one could just be a fanciful description of England in winter, I suppose, but it has a very romantic feel to it that makes me suspect a secret double meaning." She says the last two words with particular relish, as if they are a dessert she very much looks forward to trying. 

"Especially since Peter hates English winter," I agree. "He's as much as said if we want to see him for Christmas this year, we'll have to celebrate Christmas in Tangiers."

"Exactly," Granny replies triumphantly.

I smile at her over my tea. "Well, let's hear it."

Lifting her glasses to her nose, she reads out loud. 

"The edge of the lake is still  
Cast in black and white on the silver screen  
Orchestrated by  
Fieldfare  
And broken rushes

Colour seeps through  
The frozen frame  
Just a spot  
Startling pink  
Barely visible under a mantle of white

A bleeding heart  
Awake in this season of sleep  
Petals peeling back from the center  
I wrap my finger around it  
To keep it warm."

Well, I have to agree the poem is about a person rather than the scenery, but I don't need to guess whom. "I do see what you mean about the romanticism, but I don't see why you're worrying yourself so much about it. Really, you're as bad as the children when it comes to a secret."

The observation earns me a full look of Granny disapproval. "At my age there is so little to be entertained by, I will take what I can get," she informs me, each word as crisp as the news print in her hand. "Besides, I've always loved a good mystery. So, what do you think? Do you have any notion who this wintery paramour of Peter's could be?"

I stall, sipping my tea. Still too hot. I can not put Granny off forever. I'll be lucky to do it for a few minutes, really, she's entirely too keen. On the other hand, I don't want to shock her too badly. She's old, after all, and not in the best health. "I know exactly who it is, Granny, but I don't think you'll approve."

"I don't approve of a great many things," she reminds me. "I still don't quite approve of your hair."

"I thought you liked my hair." She's certainly never complained about it, and there is nothing that will stop Granny from complaining.

"It suits you," she allows, "But that doesn't mean I entirely approve of it." 

"Alright," I touch my hair, a bit self conscious now, although I'm sure Anna's done her usual marvelous job with it. "It's not his fiance, or fiance-apparent I suppose."

"Oh, I didn't suspect it was."

"It might shock you." I'm not certain whether that will put her off or simply ensure she hounds me until I answer, but at least now she can't say I didn't warn her.

Lips pursed, chin tucked, Granny gives me one of the most unimpressed expressions to ever grace the human face, and given some of her past looks that's saying rather a lot. "Mary," she reprimands, "I have spent the past thirteen years aware that in nineteen thirteen my granddaughter carried the body of her dead Turkish lover through the gallery of Downton."

"Ah yes," I sigh. And there is the ghost of Mr. Pamuk, right on time. I suppose I should have known better. Granny is tougher than I ever remember, after all. "I suppose you have at that." With a deep breath, a shrug, and my primmest smile, I mentally cross my fingers and hope for the best. "Alright, then. It's about Barrow."

I sip my tea and watch her very carefully.

Granny blinks a couple of times, then looks down at the poem, raising her glasses. "Mm, yes, now that you point it out, I suppose it is rather obvious, isn't it?" she asks, lowering her glasses again and looking up with a prim smile that may or may not be wholly genuine. At least she doesn't seem to be going into shock, although I suppose I shouldn't be surprised there. She did live in the same world as Oscar Wilde, after all. "How do you think Barrow took the surprise, having an ode to him published?"

"Goodness, I hope it wasn't a surprise." It's an alarming thought, really. This is Barrow, after all. He's never been noted for being calm, unless perhaps there's an emergency going on. "I can't imagine he'd take the shock at all well."

"Oh come now, at the very least it would be flattering to his vanity," Granny scoffs, then adds, sharply and hastily, "and don't tell me he doesn't have any. No man is that good looking without having a healthy sense of vanity, even if they pretend otherwise."

That is true enough to make me smile over my tea. "No, I believe Barrow has plenty of vanity," I allow, "and I can see this being the sort of thing he found wickedly amusing. However, he's a very private man and very cautious about...certain things. I can't imagine having something this personal published without his consent would please him." The more I think about it, the more I feel the urge to call Peter, or at least Edith, and make certain everything is alright. "As a matter of fact, I can see it being downright disastrous."

"Do you think Peter knows the man well enough to avoid the misstep?"

"He certainly knows the man well," I mutter, rolling my eyes at certain memories from this past summer. "I don't think Peter is the sort to do that. He's fanciful, yes, and I can see this appealing to his romanticism, but I think he has a better grasp on the realities of his....romantic situation than people give him credit for. And I may be wrong, but I don't think he'd risk offending Barrow."

Granny looks dubious. "He'd risk offending his fiance, but not his valet?"

And that's an entirely different headache that I'm very glad is not mine to deal with. "From what I've seen his fiance doesn't seem to pay him much mind, if she can help it."

"Well, that can certainly have it's advantage," Granny nods, finally setting aside the magazine and picking up her tea. It's probably gone half cold by now. She pays that no mind, and turns her full attention on me. "Well, I suppose if Miss Gordon's next poem is full of heartbreak and woe, we'll know Peter's put his foot in it. Now, outside of visiting me and not giving birth to my next great-grandchild, what are your plans for the day?"


End file.
